Rose  

She was the artistic sort
Preferred drama to sports and movies to dead end and drinking on a Saturday night
Always quiet less someone make fun of her
Preferring to be an outcast than a slut with her name written on the blackboard on Monday morning like the popular girls who were listed there and who they’d done over the weekend.
Liking her gray felt hat, her converse running shoes and ripped jeans, which looked like bullets, had eaten them
People making fun of her fashion and her differences
People helping them selves to her soul
People always thinking they made themselves better by putting her down
To the teachers who said she’d make nothing of herself
even they didn’t support her when she was teased – they’d join in on the joke
She’d rush by so no one had the chance to say something to her
She hid in the shadows and under the large sweaters he mother knitted for her so no one could see her figure
After going to graduation with a stranger who a friend set her up with
She escaped to the land of surf and sun
Off came the oversized sweaters and the coat as thick as armadillo’s armor
Off came her sense of shy
Off came her fear of trusting others because they may hurt her.
Out she came …..from her shell
She put out her hand and started to make friends who had things in common with her
Across her face a smile suddenly appeared
Confidence reared it’s friendly face and she embraced it willingly
Her laugh hearty and her gestures bold and funny
She put up her head and looked people in the eye not at their feet, not afraid anymore
She had a feeling like for once in her life she belonged

Holding her head high. She returned to the small town with the small minded people who had tried to put her down. They fawned over her and said how different she was. Several of them tried to be her friend. She left and to this day…hasn’t returned…

© 2007 Rosemary Wilson